Fair Game

by Doreen Owens Malek

  Martin studied her for a long moment and then said, “What are you doing here, with this group? Do you really feel that you belong with them?”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Her face became blank, expressionless, and she replied in a cool tone, “Please don’t judge all of us by Carmen Hughes.”

  She left him standing on the sidewalk. He jammed his hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels, and closed his eyes. Damn it. Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut? A couple of conversations with her when she had nothing better to do did not make them best buddies.

  And he’d been right about one thing. She could definitely put on the mistress of the manor act when she chose.

  Then he remembered why he was there, and went back inside to watch the Fairs.

  Ashley was now “working the room,” possibly to avoid any further interaction with Martin. She kept it up until her father spoke, and the party broke up shortly afterward.

  The Senator and Mrs. Fair were staying overnight in the city, so Capo left with them, and Meg rode back to the airport with Ashley and Martin. The two women sat together, and Martin was relegated to the front seat, where he spent the travel time brooding about his unprofessional behavior. He said nothing during the subsequent plane ride and trip back to the hotel, but when Meg left and Ashley was heading into the bedroom he called, “Miss Fair?”

  She turned and looked at him.

  “I want to apologize for what I said earlier, at the restaurant. I spoke out of turn.”

  Ashley shook her head, interrupting him. She had taken her hair down during the plane ride, and it now cascaded over her bare shoulders, making her look very young.

  “It was my fault,” she said. “I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I’m afraid that Carmen is a sore point with me.”

  He waited.

  “We were at school together in Europe,” she explained. “Her grandfather was the Costa Rican ambassador during my dad’s first term in the Senate. He opposed some international-trade legislation that would have favored Ambassador Mantegna’s country, and, as kids will, we carried the rivalry over into our own lives.”

  “I see.”

  “Carmen has never outgrown it,” Ashley added ruefully.

  Martin listened, thinking that the color of her dress flattered her pale complexion.

  “I should have told everyone why you were there,” she added softly. “You became a target because she thought you were my date.” She brushed her hair back off her forehead, smiling wanly. “At least that was one reason. I don’t mean to discount the impact of your considerable personal charms.”

  Martin watched her, wondering why she was being so candid. He knew enough about her already to realize that she hid a lot beneath the family’s glowing persona.

  “Why didn’t you tell them why I was there?” he asked quietly.

  She sighed, looking away from him. “I’m not sure. They’ve seen me with Jim for so long. I guess I wanted them to think that some other man would be interested in me.”

  “Of course they know other men would be interested in you,” he said gently, wondering how she could doubt it.

  “Someone like you?” she asked, and he realized with concern that she was very close to tears.

  “Ashley, what’s the matter?” he said, unconsciously calling her by her familiar name for the first time. “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head rapidly, closing her eyes. “Nothing. I’m just tired. Forgive me.”

  Martin watched her trying to recover her composure, his gaze fixed on her face.

  “Good night, Lieutenant,” she said softly. “I’ll see you in the morning.” She stepped through the door and closed it behind her.

  Tim, he said to her silently. You’re supposed to be calling me Tim, remember?

  Ashley walked to her bed and sat on it, listening to him undressing in the next room, trying not to picture him without his shirt. Without his pants. She stood and tore off her gown savagely, dropping it in a heap on the floor.

  Damn Jim, anyway. He knew how she hated to go to these things alone, and so he backs out two hours before she has to get on the stupid plane, leaving her vulnerable to...

  To what? Martin hadn’t done anything, except look so heart-stoppingly gorgeous in that rented tux that Carmen had homed in on him like a circling vulture, ready to sink her scarlet claws into his hard, masculine flesh.

  What an irresistible combination for her, Ashley thought bitterly. All that wavy black hair, those aquamarine eyes, and my date to boot. I’m surprised she didn’t trip over her Charles Jourdan sandals in her mad rush to get to him.

  And then when he froze her out—what had she said to him to make him look so rattled? He didn’t rattle easily—she’d asked a few questions and quickly determined the right approach to embarrass him. God, she was vile. Ashley wished she had her in the room right now so she could slap her. Martin was worth ten of Carmen’s effete, opera-aficionado pals. And on some level Carmen sensed that, which had helped to bring on the evening’s revolting display.

  Martin had sidestepped her perfectly, of course, but Ashley still felt bad about it. Bad that it had happened to him, bad that it was one of her father’s invited guests who had treated him so shabbily. It appeared that he’d dismissed it without a second thought, but she couldn’t.

  She heard a thump from next door and tried to imagine what he was doing out there. Probably smoking three cigarettes at once, wondering what kind of lunatics he was mixed up with and wishing he were back in homicide solving a nice, simple murder.

  She took off her jewelry and went to the safe to put it away.

  Chapter 4

  RANSOM WAITED a week before he called Meg. Waiting was not as difficult for him as it was for most people, and he fully expected to reap the rewards of his patience in the end. He passed the time reading up on the Philadelphia area and expanding his knowledge of the job he was supposed to have, so that he could discuss it intelligently.

  The phone rang at a little after nine in the morning in the Fair hotel suite and was answered by the Senator’s press aide. Damico listened, said, “Hang on,” and handed the receiver to Meg.

  “Who is it?” she asked him, putting down the speech she was proofreading and reaching to take the phone, covering the mouthpiece with her hand.

  Damico shrugged.

  “Thanks, Roger,” she said dryly. The man treated reporters as though they were an invading army and played Torquemada with delivery boys, but he was too busy to ask who was calling her.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Margaret, this is Peter Ransom.”

  The name drew a blank. She was silent long enough to convince Ransom that he should clarify, and he added, “Walter Raleigh.”

  She laughed. “Oh, yes, of course. My savior. How are you?”

  “Fine, and you?”

  “Good. I’m sorry I didn’t remember your name. We’re very busy here and...” She paused. “How did you find me?”

  “Well, I met you in the hotel parking lot, so I asked the clerk at the registration desk. He told me you were Senator Fair’s assistant.”

  “I see. How did you get this number?”

  There was a soft chuckle from the other end of the line. “You’re a careful lady.”

  “I try to be.”

  “That’s always wise. So, let’s see, what did I do? Oh, yeah. There were no rooms registered to the Senator when I asked, but I knew his group must be staying there. It was a process of elimination. I finally recognized the name of one of the campaign aides. Kirchner, right?”

  “Yes. He signed for the rooms. It helps to deflect unwanted communications.”

  “I hope this isn’t one of them.”

  Meg relaxed. “Of course not. But you went to some trouble to get in touch with me.”

  “I wanted to see you again.” His tone was low, friendly without being too intimate.

  Meg hesitated. She really didn’t know this man, but she had to admit that what
she recalled about him interested her. And his persistence in finding her was flattering.

  “Just lunch,” he said, correctly interpreting her hesitation. “You can bring your own car and meet me there.”

  “Today?” Meg asked, mentally running through her schedule.

  “I know it’s last-minute, but I really would like to see you. You must be very busy, and it may be tough for us to get together if we wait too long.”

  Meg thought about it. She did want to see him again, and if they didn’t hit it off she could always leave. It was only lunch, after all.

  “All right,” she said. “How about one o’clock?”

  “Fine. Fiore’s downtown? Do you know where it is?”

  “Yes, I’ve been there. But I have to be back by three to leave for Bucks County.”

  “No problem. I’ll see you there. Good-bye.” He hung up quickly, before she could change her mind.

  Meg moved to replace the receiver, and then dropped it into her lap. She grabbed her purse and rummaged through it, locating her wallet and extracting Ransom’s business card from the billfold where she’d stuck it. The card gave a center-city address and a local number. She picked up the receiver and pressed the button for the tone, dialing the exchange listed on the card.

  “Premier Leasing,” a woman’s voice answered on the second ring.

  “Peter Ransom, please,” Meg said.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ransom is out of the office today. May I take a message for him?”

  “No, that’s all right, thank you,” Meg said, and hung up the phone. Well, he apparently worked where he said he did. Beyond that, she would have to see.

  She’d meet him for lunch.

  She picked up her pencil and went back to proofreading the speech.

  * * * *

  Ransom selected a brick-red tie to go with the navy pin-striped suit and set the clothes out on his bed. He’d already scuffed and then polished the shoes, sent the new suits to the cleaners and the shirts to the laundry. Everything was ready.

  He went into the living room and sat on the couch, propping his feet on the coffee table and lighting a cigarette.

  He would have to be on his guard and be careful not to rush her. She was more wary than she had seemed the first time he met her. But he wasn’t worried. His willingness to take things slow contributed in large part to his success.

  An abandoned, illegitimate child, Ransom had been raised in the oppressive atmosphere of state orphanages, where delayed gratification was a way of life. If you cleaned the common room every day for a week, you’d get a slice of cake for dinner on Saturday night. If you kept your slate clean of demerits for three months, you’d go on the group trip to the movies on Sunday afternoon. He endured, without love or indeed any genuine interest shown him, because he was a loner who cultivated self-reliance as a means of survival.

  When he was sixteen, he ran away from the home and lied about his age to join the army. He found the service environment of rigid rules and blind obedience to orders familiar and even comfortable, enabling him to adjust quickly and prosper. He watched kids several years older than he, away from their families for the first time, cry themselves to sleep in their bunks. He observed their weakness and realized that it showcased his own strength. He had never forgotten the lesson, and from that period ceased to think of himself as less than those who’d had the benefit of homes and parents. He was only different, and in some ways, superior.

  Ransom lay back against the sofa and closed his eyes, remembering his first tour of duty in Vietnam. He was a big kid with a mature demeanor, and nobody had guessed how young he was. Especially when he held his own with the most seasoned of the veterans “in country,” never flinching, never turning away from the worst of it. He’d volunteered for more Asian tours when he could have been stationed Stateside and was decorated several times, learning warfare as a profession with the ease of a natural predator. His superiors had recognized his ability and sent him to Special Forces School, and that experience marked his final transformation into the trained, expert killing machine who’d been hired to dispatch Senator Fair.

  Ransom glanced at the wall clock and decided he had time for a second cigarette. He smoked it slowly, indulging himself in an unusually reflective mood. To him, the past was dust and he rarely examined it; his real life had begun when he found his current calling.

  With the end of the war, he, like other veterans, had returned to an unappreciative nation and a series of unsatisfactory jobs. He was ripe for the picking when his former Green Beret colonel recruited him and several others like him for mercenary work at home. Ransom quickly became an elite contract killer, a top performer in his chosen field, much in demand for the difficult assignments that required his special touch. And enough of those came his way to make him a rich man in a short period of time.

  He relied on the colonel, his “contact,” to set up deals with clients willing to pay handsomely for his specialized skill, and so he lived the life of a nomad, traveling and assuming a new identity to complete each job. He was wanted by the FBI and Interpol as several different people, since the police hadn’t realized yet that the same man was the culprit in many varied cases. But it was only a matter of time before they did; they weren’t as smart as he was, but they weren’t idiots, either. He’d been thinking lately of dropping out for a while, taking an extended vacation when this deal was done. He could go back to work any time he wanted. People with a pecuniary interest in murder were always in the market for what he had to sell.

  Ransom stood and crushed out his cigarette, going to the bedroom to change. As he dressed for his date with Meg, he reviewed what he would say to her, how he would direct the conversation. It never occurred to him that he might not be in control of the situation. He always was. He enjoyed success not only because of his brilliant planning and excellent marksmanship, but because his life was devoid of emotional involvement. He regarded people as the means to an end-—his next completed contract. And the goal of his work was simple: the accumulation of wealth.

  Money represented neither luxuries nor pleasures, since he indulged himself in few of either, but rather the security of knowing he would never be at the mercy of public institutions again. To that end he lived simply and invested well, going from project to project like a judicious performer choosing vehicles for advancement, acquiring a reputation for accuracy and positive outcome.

  He didn’t expect that this case would jeopardize it.

  Meg did not feel like battling the city traffic in her own car, and she disdained the Senator’s limo, instead taking a cab to the restaurant. She didn’t want to be ostentatious, and the town car was hard to miss. In addition, the drivers talked. She preferred to keep this to herself for a while, until she decided if it really was worth pursuing.

  She had dressed with care, selecting a two-piece dove-gray outfit, a sleeveless dress and matching cardigan jacket that flattered her dark coloring. She always made the most of her looks, choosing clothes in dark blue and navy, shades of lavender and gray, sometimes cherry red, anything that enhanced what nature had given her. And she had a superb figure, which she kept in trim with a closely supervised diet and the constant activity involved with working for the Senator. So she was ready for the great love of her life. He was tardy, she had to admit, but he might yet appear. At the moment, however, she was more concerned about getting back in time to keep her schedule for the rest of the day, and she checked her memory against the leather-bound calendar in her purse. Everything seemed to be in order, and she relaxed, sitting back against the seat for the crosstown ride.

  Ransom was waiting inside the lobby of the restaurant, stationed at the bow window watching for Meg’s arrival. He had called ahead for a reservation and bribed the maitre d’ for a good table, secluded and away from the kitchen noise. The dining room was crowded but subdued, the sort of place where conversation never rose above a low murmur. He had chosen it for that reason; he would be able to talk to her and draw h
er out, make the first meeting count for as much as possible. He felt tense and a little nervous, as he always did before setting a plan in motion, but he was glad he was getting it underway.

  He stepped forward as Meg walked through the door. She looked around briefly, caught his eye, and smiled.

  She looked nice, he thought as he closed the distance between them. She had been wearing jeans and a sweater when they met, but now she was more dressed up, with a knee-length skirt and high heels that flattered her legs. She had good legs, he noticed, a good figure in fact, not willowy and slight like the Fair girl’s but full bodied and curvaceous.

  This might turn out to be quite pleasurable.

  “I wasn’t sure I would recognize you,” she greeted him as he took her hand and shook it.

  “I was certain I would know you,” he replied.

  They were shown to their table, and Ransom said as they sat, “You look lovely.”

  “Thank you,” she replied neutrally.

  Too much, he thought quickly. No more flattery; she doesn’t like it and she’ll see through it. Remember how bright she is.

  “I’m glad you decided to come,” he added.

  She looked at him and nodded. “So am I.”

  There, that was better. “I imagine you don’t meet many men the way you met me.”

  She grinned. “It’s something to keep in mind if I ever get lonely. I can always have another flat tire. It beats putting ads in the personals columns.”

  “I can’t believe you’d ever have to do that.” Careful, not too obsequious.

  “Maybe not. But I did have a number of blind dates in college.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I had this very popular roommate who was convinced I was burying my youthful potential under a bunch of political science textbooks. I had a work scholarship and a tough curriculum, so I didn’t have a wealth of time to pursue a social life. She was always fixing me up with somebody, usually a friend of her current boyfriend. She had a lot of boyfriends, so I had quite a few arranged dates.”